


Safe, Warm, Loved

by tryslora



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Plug, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cock Warming, Community: daily_deviant, Hand Jobs, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Safeword Use, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 08:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: It's a great scene, until the moment that Marcus saysred...





	Safe, Warm, Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a part of Daily Deviant's birthday celebration for a prompt "BDSM scene, sub safewords out, followed by fluffy but sensual aftercare."

Marcus is gorgeous splayed out like this, a light sheen of sweat beading on his skin. His arms are stretched above his head, fingers wrapped around the slats of the bed, a Gryffindor tie wound around his wrists to hold him in place. His knees are bent, heels almost to his bum, lifting his hips from the bed. Breath makes his chest heave, shuddering out again, his cock thick and rigid, dripping from the tip.

Oliver twists the plug and pushes it past Marcus’s tight rim. He runs his hand over Marcus’s thigh, waiting for the moment when he relaxes so that Oliver can push the plug in all the way, seating it carefully. “Green?” he asks, and Marcus nods, eyes closed.

“Yeah,” Marcus grunts. “‘M’fine. Get on with it, Wood.”

Oliver coughs, and Marcus grumbles. “For that,” Oliver tells him, “we’re going with a blindfold tonight. If I can’t trust you to be respectful, I can’t trust you to keep my eyes closed.”

“Why not just fucking gag me?” Marcus mutters.

Oliver runs a finger across Marcus’s bottom lip, pressing just inside as a blindfold ties itself around Marcus’s head. “I might, later, but I want the option of what I’m going to gag you with,” he says lightly. “Besides. I want you to be loud tonight, Marc. Tell me how it feels.”

“Yes, Sir.” The words are tight, bitten off. Marcus’s hips shift, seeking friction. Oliver grants him a small touch, ghosting his fingertips over the length of Marcus’s shaft, then pulling away as soon as Marcus thrusts.

“Patience,” Oliver says. He summons the box he’d set aside in the other room, where Marcus wouldn’t see it before tonight. He reaches in, pulls out the clamps he’d selected, palming them in his right hand. With his free hand, he teases Marcus’s nipples, pinching until they’re both hard nubs, then fixes the clamps in place.

“Fuck….” Marcus whispers.

“Still good?” Oliver asks, waiting until Marcus nods.

Oliver has two strings of clips, and he places each set carefully, pinching tiny bits of skin from armpit to waist. There’s not an ounce of fat on Marcus; he’s built as a solid wall of muscle, honed from hours on the Quidditch pitch.

Marcus whines softly as the last clips are placed, his breath shallow and even. Oliver places a hand on his chest, feels the steady beat of his heart. He’s learned to read his lover, to know when Marcus has slid into that space beyond words. A low whuff of an exhale, and a lazy inhale.

Oliver pinches the skin just below Marcus’s nipple, and his hips jerk.

He’s ready.

A spell flips Marcus in place, twisting him until he’s knees down on the bed, a pillow under his shoulders for support, his arse high in the air. Marcus’s fingers flex, and he grunts as he lands, head bowed low. Oliver pauses with one hand on Marcus’s back, waits for any response, and when he gets none, he moves on.

His cat o’ nine tails lands in his hand, his fingers wrapping around the well-worn leather. Oliver runs his fingers down the strands, checks the knots at the end to make sure everything’s in good condition. He raises his arm, flicks his wrist as he swings, and snaps the cat to strike Marcus’s raised arse.

Marcus grunts, swaying with the impact, bright lines of red striping his skin.

Oliver gives him a rhythm at first, pulling back on the inhale, lashing out as he exhales. Marcus matches his breath with the way he sways, the low grunts and groans. Marcus’s prick hangs heavy, a thin drip trailing to the bed. Oliver keeps the rhythm while Marcus escapes from his head, sinks further into his own space.

Then he begins to vary. Holding back, delaying until Marcus whines low in his throat, then delaying all over again. Two strikes quickly, across the shoulders instead of the arse, drawing the tips of the leather down Marcus’s spine and up again. Tickling as well as lashing, listening for the sound of the low whine, the guttural groans.

Marcus twists, pulls against the ties on his wrists.

Oliver paints stripes across his back, peppers welts across his thighs.

“Fuck….”

Oliver hesitates at the one word, the strands hanging just above Marcus’s back. Marcus bows, head down and back arched, breath rushing fast.

Marcus never speaks when he’s down. Never.

Oliver rests a hand on his shoulder, leans in close. “Marc. Color.”

No response.

Oliver’s fingers trail down Marcus’s spine; Marcus shouts, twisting against his touch as he hits the base of his back, near the thick knot of scarring.

“Fuck, _red_.”

Oliver drops the cat on the floor, vanishes the blindfold. He scrambles to get the ties undone, drags Marcus to lie on his side as Oliver lies facing him. Oliver frames his face with his hands, lightly touches his eyelids. “Open up.” Oliver keeps his tone low. “Marc, come on, look at me. What’s wrong?”

“Fuck.” Marcus’s breath rasps too fast, shivers setting in. “Fuck. I just… fuck.”

Oliver summons the blankets, wraps them around Marcus tightly. He gathers him close, tugs him so that Oliver can sit against the headboard, Marcus cradled as much as he can on Oliver’s lap. “Shh,” Oliver whispers. “It’s okay. Wherever your head is, you’re not there, Marc. You’re here. With me. Our bed. Our house. It’s 2008. You’re here. With me.”

Marcus’s fingers bite into Oliver’s arm, digging in and clinging to him. Oliver pets his back, rubs circles into the nape of his neck. Waits for the breathing to calm. When a breath shudders out without being gasped back in, Oliver leans down, presses a kiss to Marcus’s forehead. “Hey,” Oliver says softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Marcus mutters. “Fuck. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No,” Oliver cuts him off. “If you needed to stop, we stop. That’s what red is for, and you don’t have to tell me why if you don’t want to.”

“You sure?” Marcus’s gruff voice is uncertain, and Oliver knows that even now, ten years after the war, there are still things buried deep in his mind and heart.

“I’m sure.” Oliver tugs a little at the blanket. “Mind sharing the blanket now? I’m getting cold out here.” When Marcus moves, Oliver is able to tug the wrap free and slip under the covers.

Marcus rolls over obligingly to be the little spoon, letting Oliver press close behind him. They’re almost the same height—Marcus is only a couple inches taller—but Oliver feels sometimes as if he’s half the size. Marcus is broad, thickly packed muscle, while Oliver is rangy. Like this, though, it doesn’t matter. He can toss one leg over Marcus’s, press his hand against his stomach while he rests his forehead against Marcus’s back. His fingers slide across Marcus’s skin, still sticky with the residue from his leaking cock.

Marcus whines softly, pushes his hips back against Oliver. It presses the plug into Oliver’s hip, pushing it into Marcus, and Marcus groans.

“Color,” Oliver murmurs into Marcus’s shoulder, as his hand slides lower, and he wraps his fingers around the base of Marcus’s thick cock.

“Green.” Marcus’s voice is rough, his hips shifting to press into Oliver’s touch. “Fuck, feels good. I don’t des—”

“Shh.” Oliver bites down on the thick of his shoulder, holds for a moment until Marcus relaxes. “Just let me do this for you, love.”

Oliver strokes Marcus’s prick, rolling over the head, using a tight fist just the way he knows Marcus likes it. He takes his time, lingering over the sensation, until Marcus bucks into his touch. Oliver pauses, shifts his hips so he can rut lightly against Marcus’s arse, his prick sliding against the slick mess surrounding the plug.

“Fuck, good….” Marcus pushes back, and Oliver bites back a whimper of his own.

“You’re so good.” Oliver strokes him harder now, lets Marcus move easily. Every shift of Marcus’s hips means Oliver slides against him. He goes faster with his hand, encouraging Marcus to fuck into his grip, slowing only when Marcus groans loudly and spills over his hand.

Marcus rolls over, moves down so that he’s under the blanket, buried while he takes Oliver’s prick into his mouth. He sucks lazily, holds him there like a pacifier. Oliver runs his fingers through Marcus’s hair, idly stroking to the nape of his neck, then his cheek. When Oliver lifts his hips, Marcus strokes with his tongue, and Oliver groans. “This is supposed to be for you,” he reminds Marcus.

Marcus pulls off without emerging from the blankets. “Green,” he says firmly. “And I want to….” His voice trails off, but his fingers are on Oliver’s prick, lightly touching him.

“You just want my dick in your mouth,” Oliver says quietly, and he feels Marcus’s nod against his thigh. “Okay. Can I come?”

“Yeah,” Marcus whispers.

It’s slow and lazy the way Marcus sucks him off, swallowing everything and keeping going until Oliver is soft. Then he just lies there, head on Oliver’s thigh and Oliver’s prick in his mouth, soft and warm. Oliver threads his fingers through Marcus’s hair, massaging lightly, and lets him be warm under the pile of blankets.

“You feel safe?” Oliver asks quietly, and Marcus nods again. And that’s all Oliver needs to hear. Safe, warm, loved. That’s all they need.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me [on tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com)!


End file.
